Chapter 4
Two days later, at nearly two in the afternoon, Daniel hurried across the square toward the royal palace. He was carrying two large, heavy books that his dear friend Elaine O'Meara had given him before he left Grantville two months earlier, and a small box of pastries, sent by his wife, Sofia. He was hoping, albeit with great apprehension, that Gustavus would approve of the up-time painting styles he wanted to use—and perhaps a pastry or two would sweeten the king's mood if he was not, at first, convinced.
He saw Rebecca Abrabanel just as she saw him and waved, with a relieved smile on her face. Her long, dark hair was whisked across her face from the breeze, but her big eyes were clear, intelligent, and welcoming.
“My dear,” he said to her as he joined her on the broad steps of the palace, “my apologies if I am late. Sofia would not hear of my leaving without a box of her pastries for the king, and they must be prepared with great care.”
“No, Daniel, not at all—you are right on time. Come!”
As they made their way into the palace, Daniel was surprised to see boards, what looked like sections of walls, and various ropes and other material in parts of the corridors, and he remarked that he expected to see the palace in better condition.
Rebecca smiled. “Yes, it is intended to look as though construction is still continuing.” At Daniel's surprised look, she continued. “These items are intended to slow movement through the palace.”
They paused at one wholly-blocked passageway. Rebecca nodded to a uniformed soldier who studied Daniel carefully, as if to memorize his face, before nodding to two men to clear the barrier.
“All is well?” Rebecca asked the soldier.
“All quiet, ma'am,” he said, nodding to them both as they passed.
Daniel said, “I wasn't aware of such a threat . . .”
“Oh, it is mostly precaution. I think it is unlikely that assassins would try to infiltrate the palace itself. But, better to be too cautious than too little, yes? There have been reports lately of spies in Magdeburg, Poles maybe, and of course you know of the attempt on Kristina's life not long ago, and the murder of her mother. These are dangerous times.”
Daniel nodded and said nothing more, as they made one more turn and reached the well-guarded outer doors of what Rebecca had told him was the king's favorite room in the palace—a large, bright, and airy circular space. It had been formally given the dull name, The Blue Room, for the color of the walls, but it had become known as the Aerie. After two guards made a cursory search of their possessions, they were let into a small antechamber.
One of the king's bodyguards greeted them. He was young, in good shape, though shorter than Daniel. “Herr Block,” he said, “I am Cathal Tolmach. Whenever you are with the king, I or another of his personal bodyguards will be in this room at all times. If you have any difficulties, the king's doctor can be summoned at a moment's notice. You need only shout or come outside, and we will send for him immediately. Ja?”
“Yes, good,” Daniel said. “Do you anticipate any problem?”
“No, no. However, it is always wise to be cautious. Now, just one moment. I will see if his majesty is ready.”
Tolmach returned a moment later, smiling, and nodded to Rebecca. Daniel was interested to note that she seemed to relax.
At Daniel's questioning look, she whispered, “He is in a good mood right now,” then led Daniel into the Aerie.
He had no idea what to expect from the king. The man had been friendly though often abrupt and moody when Daniel had painted him previously, but now with his injuries, Daniel could not be sure the man would even recognize him. The dampness of his palms told Daniel he was even more nervous than he'd realized.
It was a mild shock simply to enter the chamber, as it was big and grand and bright, in stark contrast with the sometimes narrow hallways and the dim antechamber. Daniel was momentarily stunned, but quickly realized the dazzling effect was intentional. Not merely to make the king seem more grand, but to help protect him. And then, though he'd only just begun to take the room in, he was greeted with a booming call: “Daniel! Rebecca! Welcome.”
The king rose stiffly and with a frown, steadying himself on a chair that was conveniently located to his left. He held his hand out, beaming.
The king looked very much like Daniel remembered him, though it was clear that time and his injuries in battle had aged him. Gustavus still sported a well-groomed Van Dyke, and his hair was still the same light—almost caramel—brown. His forehead was still prominent, but his eyes flashed that youthful energy that some found infectious, and others found intimidating.
Daniel stepped forward and was relieved at the king's vigorous shake—and even more so by the words that followed. “My old friend, it is a pleasure to see you again.” He smiled at Rebecca. “I understand you've been enlisted to help keep me still while I'm regaining my strength, hmm?” At Rebecca and Daniel's looks of surprise and discomfort, the king scoffed. “Did you really think I wouldn't realize what you were up to? Hmph. I didn't hit my head that hard. No indeed.”
He opened his mouth to continue, but his daughter Kristina dashed into the room, interrupting him. “Rebecca! Captain Barth told me you were here. Don't you agree that it would be a good idea for me to learn to fly an airplane? Ulrik, my betrothed, disagrees, but I'm sure you think I'm capable of it.”
She was quite a lively girl, Daniel mused. The last time he had been with the king, Kristina had not yet been born. She was the spitting image of her mother, with her black hair, prominent nose, smooth face, but she was all energy, like her father. “Ah . . .” Rebecca said, hesitating for just a moment. “I believe you would be a fine pilot, my dear, but you know all of our planes are needed for government business. It would not do to reserve one simply for your amusement, would it? Or to risk its damage?”
“But I wouldn't break it!” Kristina said, scowling. “And then, if we ever needed to go to a meeting or to make a dramatic getaway . . . although, I suppose I can see your point. Oh! I'm sorry,” she said, looking at Daniel. “We have not met.”
Gustavus cleared his throat and made the introductions himself, explaining why Daniel was there. When he finished, Kristina's eyes widened and she said, “And have you accepted?”
Gustavus shook his head. “Not yet.”
“Oh, you must, you must!”
Daniel saw an opportunity. “Perhaps you would enjoy looking at some pictures. I brought them to show His Grace. These books contain images of paintings that many famous men and women would have painted hundreds of years in the future!”
“Oh, yes! I would love to see them!”
Rebecca, seeing she was no longer needed, excused herself and departed.
One of the king's guards brought a small table over, and Kristina sat beside her father as Daniel turned the pages.
Daniel spoke in enchanted tones of the styles, the effects, the wonders they saw: lush, golden landscapes; bizarre and beautiful clothing; charming scenes of common life; and then, of course, page after page of the finest surreal, cubist, and abstract art.
Kristina alternately squealed, cooed at, and scorned various styles, before settling on Winslow Homer's Snap the Whip. “This one, this one—there is something . . . it's as if those boys are going to run right off the paper. How on earth?
“Oh! Could you paint us like this? Father and Ulrik and I? And then, perhaps, one of me on horseback—like this.” She flipped the pages quickly but carefully, until she found Eugène Delacroix's La Liberté Guidant le Peuple again.
Daniel cleared his throat. “Well, perhaps not just like that,” he said, admiring the dark but powerful painting—and flag-bearing Liberty's bare breasts. “But in that style, certainly. However, I thought I might begin with a portrait of His Grace, perhaps set in this very room.”
Kristina agreed instantly, her face coloring slightly, which led Daniel to believe the girl was also “in on” the plan to use the sittings as a way of keeping her father still.
“The only question,” he continued, “is what style to use.” He looked at them both, but gave particular attention to the king, who had been mostly silent while Daniel showed them the books.
Kristina opened her mouth, but the king spoke first. “I would prefer, in general, to be recognizable—and not melting or drooping, I think. Yes?”
Daniel smiled. “Indeed. I thought I would begin with a more traditional approach, but, perhaps, brighter colors and more flowing lines—if you will agree?”
Both Daniel and Kristina looked at the king intently. Kristina turned puppy dog eyes on him, and Daniel bit his lip to keep from laughing. What could a father possibly say under such conditions?
Gustavus sighed deeply. “Very well. I place myself in your capable hands, Daniel Block.”
Kristina clapped, and Daniel nodded his appreciation. With the books set aside, he recalled the box of pastries that sat in waiting on a nearby table, and the three of them enjoyed Sofia's creations as the king asked Daniel about his family and his work.
“How beautiful!” Kristina said, as she licked the delicate swirl of icing from the top.
She was so distracted by the sweet, gooey, crispy delicacies that Daniel thought she was ignoring everything he and her father said, until he mentioned his son, Benjamin.
“How old is he?” she asked, interrupting.
“He's almost six.”
“You must bring him with you,” she said. “They hardly ever let me leave the palace right now. It's quite dull. You will bring him, won't you? We should have great fun together. And . . . more of these,” she added, as she scooped up another sweet.
Daniel promised and, noting that the king was beginning to look tired, suggested he begin his painting in three days. This would give him time to mix paints and prepare a suitable canvas.
The king agreed and, as he shook Daniel's hand, added, “It is good to see you again, my friend. It's a reminder of a simpler time . . . and, perhaps in some ways, a better one for us both?”
“Perhaps, Your Grace,” Daniel agreed, thinking he would give up Sofia and Benjamin for nothing, but that he would change a great many things about his past if he could.
∞ ∞ ∞
A young, pleasant-looking woman met Emanuel at the door. She beamed when she saw him. “Emanuel?” she asked.
He responded with a tight smile and a kind word. He'd practiced. He bowed slightly, removing his broad-brimmed hat. “I presume that you are Frau Block?”
“Do call me Sofia,” she said, and moved out of the way to allow him entrance, wiping her hands on her apron. “Please, come in. I'm so glad to meet you finally. Daniel has spoken of you often.”
I bet he has. He stepped in, careful not to scrape his new boots across the floor. He smelled dinner. Chicken, or maybe pheasant. Boiled cabbage, and something sweet above it all. He took a deep breath and followed her into a small, but comfortable room.
“Would you like something to drink? Wine?”
He nodded. “Thank you.”
She smiled again, and Emanuel realized that Sofia was barely older than he. Disgraceful! he thought, trying hard to contain his disdain for the whole situation. She had probably been one of his father's whores. He'd gotten her pregnant and then had felt sorry for her . . . or for himself, more likely. Why he hadn't just walked away and left her destitute, Emanuel couldn't say. Perhaps the great Daniel Block had seen financial gain in marrying her. Emanuel fought the urge to turn and walk away. Instead, he watched his father's young wife pour wine and offer it up in a glass of sparkling crystal.
“Thank you,” he said, tipping the glass up and drinking it in one gulp.
She offered another, but he refused, stepping back a little as dust from the rafters drifted down in a cloud from some commotion in an upper room. Sofia laughed. “That's Daniel and Benjamin. They're playing basketball.”
“What?”
“Oh, it's an up-time sport they learned in Grantville,” she said, removing her apron and folding it neatly. “Benjamin made sure he grabbed a hoop and some balls before we left. Small ones, of course, since the actual game is played with a large rubber ball that could break things if tossed around in an apartment. Have you ever been to Grantville?”
Emanuel shook his head.
“You'd like it, I think. An interesting place. The people can be a little . . . strange in their thinking, but interesting to be sure. No doubt your father will talk about it tonight.”
Your father. “Yes, I'm sure he will.”
Sofia called for Daniel and Benjamin to come down and greet their guest, and they trundled down the stairs, sweaty, huffing and puffing, Daniel's lined face all shining and red. He wiped his hand on his shirt, offered it to Emanuel, and said, “Hello, son. I'm glad you are here.”
Emanuel took his father's hand limply, but his focus was on Benjamin, his fair-haired half-brother, standing next to their father in the same kind of loose, worn clothing. Up-time clothing, no doubt, all bright in reds and blues, with some kind of English words and symbols on the front.
Benjamin smiled and offered up what he was holding. Emanuel took it. It was a ball, soft and smooth.
Emanuel squeezed it.
“It's foam rubber,” Benjamin said, in a sweet, high-pitched voice. “The up-timers brought it through the Ring of Fire.”
“Emanuel,” Daniel said proudly with a wide grin, “meet your brother, Benjamin. Benjamin, this is your brother Emanuel.”
“Hi!” Benjamin said, giving Emanuel a little wave.
Emanuel smiled, charmed in spite of himself. He knelt down and ruffled his fingers through the boy's hair. “Nice to meet you, Benjamin.” He pulled a small silver animal from his pocket—a trinket he'd made for practice that morning—and gave it to him. “This is for you.”
Benjamin rolled it over and over in his hand. “What is it?”
“A fox.”
“What do you say?” Sofia came into the room carrying a roast chicken on a simple platter. She placed it on the middle of the dining room table.
“Thank you.” Benjamin beamed and hugged Emanuel.
Emanuel nodded. “It's my pleasure.”
Sofia led Benjamin out of the room to clean up, leaving Daniel and Emanuel alone. A long, tense moment passed in silence between them. It was Daniel who spoke first.
“Have you seen your brother Adolf recently?”
“Not in several years. Wherever he is, I'm sure he's worshipping God.”
“Yes, he was always quite devout.”
Emanuel grit his teeth, smiled subtly. “Well, at least he found a worthwhile purpose in life.”
If Daniel felt insulted, he did not show it. Instead, he placed his hand on Emanuel's shoulder. “So have I, son. So have I.” He gestured toward the table. “Please, sit down. We have much to discuss.”
Sofia and Benjamin carried the rest of their meal to the table and took their seats. Benjamin said grace, and then they began.
It was good food. The chicken was well-cooked and nicely-flavored. Sofia told him that she'd used a seasoning salt from Grantville, something brought from up-time that was a special gift to them from their hostess, Ella Lou Rice. It was a “McCormick” seasoning mixed with salt, she said, but she only had one bottle, so she used it sparingly. The sauerkraut was served with bits of pork for flavoring. That left it a little bland in comparison, in Emanuel's opinion. The bread was especially good. A recipe that she had gotten, she said, from the Rice family as well.
As they ate, Daniel and Emanuel spoke about the years since they'd last seen each other. Daniel spoke extensively about the up-timers and their painting techniques, and—beaming with pride—of Benjamin. Emanuel told Daniel about his late wife and his new family as well, slipping once and referring to Peter as “Papa.” He felt a surprising twinge of guilt when he saw Daniel wince and tried to harden his heart to it.
Sofia spoke, too, telling of her childhood in Rostock and marveling about the many machines and strange ways of the up-timers from their trip to Grantville. Finally, Sofia brought out a small tray of kipferls with cinnamon dusted on top. Emanuel had two of them.
“I have some good news,” Daniel said, finishing off the last treat. “The king is going to let me paint him again. And this time, I'm going to use up-time techniques that I learned in Grantville.” Daniel waved his hands in the air as if he were wiping away a cloud. “A whole series, painting him in various styles. I'll start off basic, you know, creating something in a style that he understands better, using the techniques of our time—called Baroque, by the way, by up-timers—but with some changes, and then I will finish off with styles far more bold. Cubism, Surrealism. What do you think?”
Emanuel shook his head, reluctant to say the next word. “Father . . . I don't know what you are talking about. I've never seen these art styles before.”
“Ah, of course, of course. Come! I will show you.”
Daniel got up from the table and walked into the next room.
Emanuel followed. Perhaps I should know them, he thought. Magdeburg wasn't too far from Grantville, and a lot of what had come through the so-called Ring of Fire had made its way to the city. Technologies, foods, clothing, other political and social changes that were making their way all across Europe. But, over the last few years, he had spent his time just trying to survive, trying to help keep his wife's family alive and well after the “king's” deceit, that Swedish son of a—
“Look here!” Daniel pulled an oversized book from a shelf, opened it, and took a seat. Emanuel sat down beside him.
Daniel flipped through the book quickly, stopping occasionally and pointing to one full color picture or another. He paused at a painting of a group of contorted women, titled Les Demoiselles d'Avignon, painted by a Spaniard named Pablo Picasso, which he said was an example of Cubist artwork. “I love Picasso, although some find his work repulsive.”
He pointed out a work by Juan Gris called Portrait of Picasso. “Don't you think this would be a perfect way to portray the king?”
Emanuel looked at it carefully, letting his eyes work through all the sharp angles of the print, the confused, almost angry contortions of the painter's face, the mutilation of his hands in a series of overlapping squares that hacked off fingers. The image was ghastly, inhuman, almost satanic. Emanuel felt ill, wanted to leave the room, but fought the urge. The idea of cutting off Gustavus' hands appealed to him, in a way, but these new art forms that his father now claimed to embrace were awful and unworthy of a gifted painter. And he could not deny that his father had genuine talent.
Daniel turned then to the Surrealist chapter, almost giddy with excitement when he pointed to a painting of melting clocks. “It's called The Persistence of Memory,” he said, “by Salvador Dali. He's another great, I must say. His Ecumenical Council is my favorite, but I'm afraid I don't have a picture of that one.” He turned another three pages, stopped, and pressed his finger on a small etching. “Now, this woman is a genius. Dorothea Tanning's Etched Murmurs. Isn't it delightful? Such simple lines, but with so much emotion . . .”
Emanuel saw anything but emotion. The pure white shape of a headless woman with large breeding hips, seemingly being accosted by some brown ghoulish imp, while some kind of demonic one-eyed beast looked on lazily from the side. Emanuel turned his face and huffed. “Disgusting! You should close your eyes to such childish nonsense.”
“No, my eyes have been opened,” Daniel said, shutting the book and setting it aside. “Grantville helped me to see the light. It is perfectly fine to show man in an exalted state, in a perfect reflection of God. That is what we Baroque painters have been doing. I will not disparage our work. But that's only half of it. Art cannot be confined to the perfect, the unblemished, the ideal. It must embrace the grotesque as well, to peel away the masks that we place upon ourselves. How many paintings show the scars, the wrinkles, the pimples? That is the truth, that is life, and there is more life portrayed in a simple bowl of fruit than in all the magnificent paintings in the Sistine Chapel.”
Emanuel jumped up, accidentally striking the book and knocking it to the floor. “Why did you invite me here? Why are you showing me these things?”
Daniel's expression grew serious. He stood, took a deep breath, and said, “I want you to be my partner in all this.”
Emanuel shook his head. “What are you talking about?”
“I want you to paint the king with me. I'll teach you these techniques, and we'll do it together. And when the series is done, we will open an art studio and gallery, and Gustavus Adolphus' portraits will be displayed proudly on its walls. We'll teach a new generation of students, get a jump on the future. We can even design new techniques, start a whole new artistic movement. You have a good business sense, and you're a fine painter yourself. With my financial partner in Grantville, and my new commission, we can't fail. Emanuel, your talents are wasted in that silver shop. You were made for something bigger, bolder. What do you say?”
Emanuel scoffed. “My talents are not wasted. Peter has spent years training me. He says I have real talent—that I will be a great silversmith. He has been . . . a great father to me, as well.”
Emanuel could see that his words struck home.
Daniel swallowed hard. He forced a smile and said quietly, “I know I have been a poor father. My . . . youth was difficult. But I've changed, Emanuel. You may not believe me, but it is true. Sofia has changed me, Benjamin has changed me. I want to do right by them. And I want to do right by you, finally.”
Emanuel could see tears welling in Daniel's eyes.
“I'm asking for a second chance, my son. Will you give me one and work with me?”
Emanuel stood there, silent for a long time, until Benjamin and Sofia wandered into the room. The sight of the three of them together made his stomach churn. He imagined his own mother there, tried to picture his brother Adolph and himself together with her and Daniel. His father . . . a man so quick to anger in his youth that it was a wonder he never struck their mother. That was the one redeeming quality in the man: he had never been violent with any of them. But how could he? He was never there. What could a father do that was worse than to never be there? The irony of it—that he, himself had been away making a delivery of a set of engraved silver goblets when Magdeburg fell . . . it almost overwhelmed him.
“No,” he said. “No, I'm sorry, but I have a job. I have a life that satisfies me. Go on and do what you are going to do, and good luck to you. You must leave me out of it.”
He expected anger. Instead, Daniel Block nodded. “Very well. If you change your mind, though, my door is always open.”
Emanuel nodded and was suddenly exhausted. He bade them good night.
Sofia handed him his hat, and he stepped out into the night air with great relief.
As he walked across the dark street, Emanuel wiped tears from his eyes and tried to drive the image of his wife's bloody face from his mind.
He failed.